The recruit
by teleny Parrish
Summary: Snowflame recruits an old friend
1. Chapter 1

Kairos: in Greek it means a special time outside the ordinary, when something happens or should be done. In my private lexicon, it's the time I spend in church. While life on the outside is chronos, clock time, measured in minutes and hours, church time is Kairos. Though at Christ Child Episcopal, Mass occurs at a clock time, when it's going on, it's Kairos: things happen at their own pace, and you can neither hurry nor stretch it out. It also is tied to eternity since that particular service recurs over and over: this is the way it was, is now, and ever will be, until the end of time.

It was Sunday, and I was having trouble with chronos: that is, I was slightly late. I hadn't been able to sleep much, and once I was in bed, I wanted to get in an extra few minutes…just a little more…Then I had trouble getting started: I didn't have a fresh white shirt. What's the ecclesiastical color for Pentecost, anyway? Red? I'll wear red. I tore down the road on my bike, cursing the steamy heat, and inserted myself into a line of chairs just as the procession paused at the opposite end of the nave. The congregation was a sea of red.

"What are you doing here?"

He was wearing mufti, but I could tell who it was in an instant: his hair was pure white, and streamed down his back. A white linen jacket had been thrown over his red silk muscle shirt and huge sunglasses hid the tribe marks around his eyes, but his red glove leather pants and matching white-trimmed boots stood out like a beacon in the staid New England congregation. Fabian Orosco, a/k/a Snowflame, sometime drug dealer and my current animus and shadow.

He smiled, and pulled his sunglasses down to look at me, then picked up a hymnal as cool as a cucumber.

"Listen, why are you in church?"

"I'm celebrating Pentecost." he said in a low voice. "I was Catholic...once."

"Are you here to do some kind of weird voodoo thing?"

Again, the slow, mischievous smile. "Shh."

The Cantor began to call the Alleluia, a single word drawn out over many notes. Snowy threw back his head and sang the response, which came from his throat as pure and gentle as consolation itself, as if the Dove itself was descending.

_And he burns with fire..._

I stared at the multitude of candles on the altar feeling mildly ill. It was going to be a long morning.

We I dealt with having to stand next to him for the next. hour. and. a. half. This was not Kairos. This was the end of a night of rock, with the time, which had been so wonderful stretched out was it just a few hours ago? turned into an agonized infinity of moments turned into little pieces of forever. The kind of morning I swore I'd never have again.

It would have been better, almost, if he hadn't been so terribly _good_ about it all. Actually, it probably would have been a lot better. If he'd talked all through Mass, or had been in the least disrespectful, I would have had some justification in signaling the usher and getting him thrown out. Instead, he just stood and sang and sat and knelt and genuflected, and even lined up for Communion like any nice guy from out of town, which a good number of people were that Sunday. And it didn't help that he had that strong jaw and manly throat, and a build like Arnold Schwartzenegger in a congregation that had a good number of gay guys in it. And that a few of the women were looking at me and giving me little smiles: there was just no justification for getting away. When he knelt at the Mary Corner, I could see that public sentiment was most definitely in his favor.

I waited until the candles were out, then bolted towards the door to the Parish Hall as fast as I possibly could. Unfortunately, everyone else was still in kairos, not chronos. No matter how much I tried to lose myself in the crowd, by the time I got around to the chocolate chip blondies, he was there.

And being quite charming, too.

He'd acquired a Panama hat as well, and he was all smiles.

Oh, yes, he was in the area for the summer. Just checking up on an old friend.

Lovely day, no?

Ah, but not as warm as home!

Yes, he had gone to a mission school..but that was long ago.

Bogota Cathedral is a wonderful place, yes.

Lovely red dress, also, good lady.

People often say that about Putumayo...yes, we do sound a bit old-fashioned.

The old is good...yes?

I was about to explode, but, well, you just can't do that in front of a visiting Bishop.

Do not kiss his ring, I thought. _Do not kiss his ring._

He kissed his ring, and was making polite noises.

I was about to slip out the door….

"Ah! Teleny!"

"Ah, um, this is Fabian...Fabian Orosco...a friend of a friend of mine..." I said, smiling as well as I could. "Uh, let's go out into the garden..."

He waved to the red-clothed crowd, and followed me out.

"Ah, Teleny, you are as beautiful as a new green leaf on my prize bush." He produced a small, glossy leaf between his fingers like a magician, and tapped it to his lips thoughtfully.

With my bad teeth and worn red T-shirt, I was feeling less than springlike.

"And you, Snowflame, are as welcome as crabgrass. What are you doing, afflicting my church with your unsavory presence?"

"That is a harsh thing to say, Teleny. Not what you should be saying in the House of the Lord." He laughed. "You would be surprised at the highs I've detected among the parish, both past and..._very _recent...but, yes it is a party weekend. If it weren't for Prohibition, I suspect I might be more than popular. I seem to remember a certain fellow..."

"All right, you_ llello brujo_, what's going on?"

"Now, that is something you should discuss in my car."

I half-expected a Miami Vice white stretch Lincoln, but instead got a comparatively modest custom white Hummer with mirrored windows. It was outfitted as a mobile office/lounge, with a banquette on one side, and a captain's chair on the other. I took the banquette, and he slid onto the captain's chair, signaling to his driver. "Where are we going?" I said, "I want to make sure I can get home if...when...I walk off on you."

We began to move.

"Is the beach all right for you? Just two old friends, enjoying the day in their camper..."

"Is that what you're going to tell the cops?"

"Mostly they don't care." He took his sunglasses and hat off and gave me a look."I'm about to swing down this table. If you're going to do what you've been aching to do for the past hour or so, this is your last chance."

I swung. Hard.

I landed about one good slap, before he blocked me. I screamed, and rolled back onto the banquette, with him on top of me. "You!" was all I managed, before he, with maddeningly easy, almost gentle force, pushed back my arm and forced his mouth onto mine. For a moment, I struggled, but somehow, my mouth worked open, and he...kissed.

It was like a flashbulb popped inside my head. Seconds seemed like an eternity as I heard several Led Zeppelin classics playing in harmony in my inner ear, I saw fireworks turning into a retinal field, and my body turn to chilled champagne all at once. And at the same time, I felt his hard body, his mind sending probing fingers into mine...

_Kairos. The breath and the flame..._

It was so intense that I only noticed his erection a moment later. I tried getting my hand down there, but again he stopped me. Again, the overwakeful sparkle in his eyes. "Remember..." he said. "I must not use it. It is part of the Pact." he whispered in my ear. He smiled in wolfish triumph, and got up, taking his first full breath, and I sat up just as he was swinging down the table. The driver hadn't turned a hair.

"I can't say I'm completely won over, but I've missed you." I said. "I still feel like scratching your eyes out, though. It's been rough."

"I've missed you, too." He looked at me sympathetically. "I would not have let this happen to you. You have been loyal, both to me and to the cause. You deserve better." He took another deep breath. "Feel free to take anything from the bar. Or, if you like"

"No. Kissing me was more than enough."

-Herb tea? Or some coffee…It's _excellent_ coffee…"

I took a Perrier out of the cooler, and tipped it into a plastic cup.

"Not Monster? Diet Coke? You look tired."

"If I'm tired, I need rest. Not one of your nostrums."

"A garnish, then." He handed me the same leaf he'd had earlier.

"You must be serious about this job."

I could never understand why, but he always insisted that I take some cocaine as part of taking on a job, even symbolically. This leaf was most likely from Mama Coca, his pet bush, which, back in home, sat in a pot beside his chair on the deck, fertilized, cosseted, and looked-after with the insane obsessiveness of a devotee of one of Nature's Own Amphetamines. No one but him could ever take a leaf from Her. Once a year, he'd strip to the waist and work on the harvest himself, picking and stomping and processing alongside the workers. Some of Her leaves would go into the mix, producing possibly the only artisanal 'caine on the planet. Getting a leaf from this plant was like getting one of his children.

"You were always the best, _mi Abadesa_. The others…they never understood. His voice, like a monk's, like the descending Dove...

"What was once, is not now, friend." I put the leaf down on the table. "I got robbed, several times, of precious family jewelry and things I can never, ever replace. I got my nose broken. It's a miracle I didn't get arrested…wait, I _was _arrested. I went homeless, and _then_ I got robbed, again, even in the shelter. My teeth are shot, my health is…well, I can't blame you, but I'm not in good shape. I spent a lot of nights in some of the most _sordid_ conditions, while I could have been doing…oh, a lot of things. I lost friends, the respect of my sainted mother _and_ my cats, and now you're _back_?"

"Is that all?"

The truck made a sharp, decisive turn, as if into a driveway. There was a crunching sound.

"Your own _family_ robbed you, after your mother died, and it was _she_ who forced you into squandering your talents, not I. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, so you got a ticket-which I paid-from an over-zealous cop. Your nose looks just fine, now. Your ill health is genetic, but fixable, with some money and the right doctors. If some people have dealt badly with you, it is neither your, nor the Lady's fault think about all those people who were sober in the shelter and couldn't deal with you. Pah! Addicts all…to soulless substances that psychiatrists give that destroy souls themselves. You were never a slave…you were always a free agent, no matter how bad things got. Even when you dealt with the least of Cocaine's children, you gave willingly of your expertise, your time, and your love, and in your dealings, you showed forbearance and restraint. When I first met you, you were a confused little child, but still wise beyond your years; I was an uncouth peasant, who knew nothing of fine words and polite society. You helped make me who and what I am today. Now I wish to give back to you, and an opportunity. Here's a hundred dollars. Take it, and if you for any reason want to leave today, call a cab."

As he was speaking, the truck stopped. He motioned to the driver, who opened the door. Through it, I could see steps leading up to a lavish beach house.

"…and, if you've finished fondling that leaf, either leave it on the bar or put it in your drink."


	2. Chapter 2

"So, let me get this straight. You're going to _sell_ more cocaine by getting people to use it less?"

I was sitting in the living room of a very pricey little piece of beachfront property. It was one of those houses that you see in Architectural Digest or the Times Design section, with gorgeous young people drinking perfect tall glasses of something with limes in it. On the land side, there was a great deal of …nothing, just beach grass and marshes, with a live-in garage for the Hummer in a little yard, on the sea side, there was…sea, with a Boston Whaler and a speedboat tied to a small jetty. Brian Eno and a touch of air conditioning mitigated the soupy weather outside, to great effect. The place, in short looked and felt like coke.

"Exactly. It needs to be put back in its rightful place. To become respectable again. To be thought of…as the companion of High Society, of wits and scholars, of the wealthy and powerful…or to people who wish to be so."

"And I'm going to help you with this how?" I looked at the nicely designed glass. I'd put the leaf in it now. What harm could it do?

"You are going to help me solve the problem of fiending."

"Right. By making it safer, you're going to make it a friendlier drug."I began to sip and pace. "A friendlier drug gets used by a better class of users, who have, after all, more money. They, in turn, start pushing for decriminalization. Pretty soon, the legislators cave in, you swoop in with a superior product, and all of a sudden, you're not Tony Montana anymore, you're Edgar Bronfman of Seagram's, and all this becomes legit. Spread around a little philanthropy, to Latin America and the inner city, and you die a rich, happy man, and a boon to all mankind. Simple."

"And you, you will share in this bright future!"

"Yeah, there's a bunch of ifs. If I can crack, ahem, the problem. If the cartels don't come down on us like a load of bricks. _If_ we're not busted. _If_ we can work together. If I don't decide that its a really, really, _stupid_ idea to get reinvolved with a scene I'd walked out on five years ago." I finished my glass, and fished out the leaf to suck on it, the way he'd taught me…how long before? It needed a little baking soda to sweeten it, but bathing in carbonation did the trick just fine - a bar specialty, I reflected, that was unlikely to make the rounds of the hipster cocktail set. At least yet.

I was born to be a neuronaut. Mom was given amphetamines, as was accepted medical practice for certain high-status women back then, while I was but a few disorganized cells, thus making me a high-end version of a crack baby. I was eighteen months old when I had my first drink. Nitrous oxide at the dentist was supplemented with early experiments with spinning and pressing my eyeballs to induce hallucinations. As a teen, I had a whole library of drug lore, from de Quincey to Hunter Thompson, and started smoking pot at fifteen. When I found out that my father, as opposed to Mom's husband, had been one of the pioneers of ethnobotany and altered states of consciousness, I figured it figured.

Not that I was anything like your typical child at risk: my parents lived in deepest suburbia, and I was generally reading on a level several grades ahead of everyone else. I had other obsessions, of course: I painted, listened to music, had a cat. I wrote almost every day, in a series of blank books and ruled notebooks. I loved games, and when my school got a computer lab, I was the first girl they ever trained.

College was chaotic: I learned tons of math, then turned against it when I found exactly how small the math world was. I kept reading literature, and actually read some of literary theory, but got bored by my professors. I learned enough psychology to cut through most psychobabble, and enough psychoneuroendrocrinology to send a psychiatrist home weeping. I learned both Western and Eastern philosophy, and a good deal of the occult as well, then, bored again, turned back to chemistry and computer science, with the goal of trying to latch on to synthetic bio. And then my grandmother got sick and Mom went mad...

"We were always an odd couple."

I'd finally gotten in a nap, and a shower. Someone had thoughtfully laid out a fresh 3x T-shirt (that looked suspiciously like Fabian's light blue weekend shirt) in the bath. The weather had cooled a bit, and the music had warmed into jazz. We were out on the deck, with at least one of us eating a well-cooked steak with various trimmings.

"But always a good one, Abbess." I'd gotten the moniker by being his 'secretary', a well-dressed female companion, researcher and walking source of scientific and cultural knowledge. That, and while most of his posse wore red and white around me, I often wore black. While the party revolved around the pool, I would be at my computer desk, scrivening away, accepting now and then, the bounty of his largesse. "We used to travel together, and you'd always find me the best places in town." He speared a sliver of blue potato, and chewed politely. "I miss those days."

He wasn't hungry. He was almost never hungry, when he was a Super. Modern tasting menus were made just for him.

I took a sip of the excellent zinfandel, and sliced the steak thinly. My teeth were bad. "It was fun." I shrugged. "And then - it wasn't." Damn hell, it _was_. I haven't eaten that way since - since we were together. Snowy's Centurion and my Platinum AmEx cards. Jewels. Furs. Fendi perfume. Having nice shoes that fit. Dancing…Days that turned to nights and then to mornings. First class seats. Discreet petit grande hotels. And always…

I looked up to see his eyes glitter. "Damn it, Fabian!" I snapped. "Do you have to turn every conversation into -"

"I didn't say anything." He went back to dissecting his dinner.

"I know…that _you_ know, what I'm thinking." I drank some water, if only to get a moment in."Stupid pusher's telepathy. You can smell a jones a mile away."

"I was about to say that we ought to try some of the new restaurants in town." He refilled my glass from the carafe. "But now I know…" He smiled, wolfishly. "You know, you don't have to take on this job to get some…and I have pot, shrooms and even yage…I'd love to see you trip. You'd be really cute, with your eyes going really big, lying on the bed, in a dark room…" He sighed. "I could take such _good_ care of you…"

"It's also known as gourmet vomiting. I wouldn't try it after _this_ meal. I want my stomach to stay just where it is."

"And another thing. You used to take such good care of yourself. You worked out, took vitamins…I used to laugh, but you really did know what to do. You used to have this technique that kept you from fiending. What was it?"

"All right, now you know that L-tryptophan is a precursor to serotonin, and can be used in place of antidepressants…can I have some paper and a pencil?"


End file.
